My Father

dark, deep, rich soil
soil tilled and turned
from the sunrise
to the sunset
sometimes in sweat
sometimes in blood
from the day born from it
to the day returned to it.

My father is the earth.

My father is the root

of the mahogany, the ebony, the oak
drinking heavily of
the sweet rain of the clouds
the salt rain of the tears
drenched deep in the soil
of my fathers before them

My father is the root.

My father is the trunk

rough on the outside
sometimes ripped by nature
sometimes stripped by man
but in the story of each ring
hidden deep inside
is the smooth beauty
known only by those
born of him

My father is the trunk.

My father is the limb

raised forward in the wind
raised forward in the rain
raised forward in the snow
raised forward to the sun
because you can’t teach
fathers to look forward
by having fathers
looking back

My father is the limb.

My father is the branch

the extensions of faith
the stretch of hope
the breadth of a promise
made long ago

My father is the branch.

I am the twig

the latest incarnation
of that promise deferred
planted deep of the earth
rooted of the past
trunked on to the present
out on a limb
branched to the sun
and if I seem to live
off my fathers before me
it is not to deprive
my fathers give willing
knowing I must survive
for it is their dreams
that are my dreams
coursing through my veins

A beautiful poem. If I had discovered this poem, and didn’t know you had written it, I would have taken the author for an American Indian. It describes that “oneness with nature” in which they have always believed.